Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue Page 5

  ‘Didn’t you? You and Ash...’ Conrad stood facing him, face set like winter.

  ‘It was you who wanted us to follow it.’

  ‘It didn’t exactly get us anywhere, did it?’

  Justin looked away. He shook his head, looking up. ‘I hardly knew him. If it wasn’t for the money, I wouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘You have no idea who Anna Kron is?’

  Justin was still trying to understand who she was. Old, that much he knew. His neighbor was old. That made her old too. She had to be. The old man had... he had never mentioned the name Anna. Anna wasn’t where Baron had told him she would be. The painting had to be returned to her, the will had said. His neighbor’s will. Now he thought about it, it all seemed so contrite, unreal, or... something just didn’t feel right. Baron had put pressure on him to come. He had wondered how they had known. Some questions you knew not to ask, he knew they had been interested in his neighbor.

  What had the hell been so special about his neighbor?

  Thomas was an Art Dealer, he’d needed the damned support. He had talked him into it, Thomas. Thomas thought it looked like a Blake, but it wasn’t. And now Thomas was dead.

  Thomas had lied to him. Conrad had lied to him.

  ‘No,’ he replied. He wanted to go home.

  Conrad cursed, looking out of the small window, to where Vikland was finishing saying something, turning to walk back around to the front of the cottage. He looked into Justin, eyes hard. ‘I want her out of here as soon as possible.’

  Justin looked down. ‘Please remove your hand off my jumper.’

  Almquist sat back down, crossing one leg over the other, raising his hand to rub his beard as he asked the question. ‘Where did you get the painting from?’

  Justin answered the question in a heartbeat. ‘My neighbor died. It belonged to him.’

  ‘Your ... dead neighbor, was the original owner of the painting we found in Thomas Denisen’s car?’ He was the type any mother-in-law would dream of, not that he was too polished or too keen. ‘So he died, your neighbor.’ Almquist nodded slowly.

  Justin sat in one of two dining chairs from the side of the table, the soft yellow light from the candles rendering the place a cosy, homely atmosphere. He moved to the side, each facing the other the video camera on a tripod next to him.

  ‘Name. Address of your neighbor?’

  ‘Einar, Einar Pontoppidan, lived at Rosen Alle number nineteen. Farum, Denmark.’

  ‘You live in Denmark?’

  Justin ran his hand through his blonde hair, glancing briefly towards the painting on the chest of drawers between two of the windows overlooking the car park. ‘We all do.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He was old.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’ Almquist said. ‘Being old.’

  Justin hesitated, taking his time, picking his moment. ‘He was found dead in his basement. That’s all I know.’

  Almquist studied Justin as a scientist does an experiment, something that gave results other than those that were expected, unusual results that needed explanation, but there was no explanation, only the observation of what was happening. Of what was being said. ‘So how did you know him?’

  Justin licked his lips. He was either thinking up a fabrication, or remembering in recollection. One or the other.

  ‘He invited me over, a beer on a Sunday. Old neighbors and such.’

  ‘Did he know you well?’

  ‘Not well, no.’

  ‘But he invited you?’

  ‘As I said, I lived next door. He asked about my artwork, I paint. Look,’ Justin said, speaking with more confidence, ‘I don’t know why he chose me to have his painting. I guess he thought I might be the right person for the job, to return this painting. At ninety-six, he didn’t know that many people, not anymore. I guess I fit or something...’

  ‘You are an artist? For a living?’

  Justin nodded. ‘Half living.’

  Almquist turned a page and spoke as he scribbled. ‘He left you the painting... in his will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see a copy?’

  Justin frowned, then shook his head. ‘No. The lawyer, Ivarsen. He sent me a cheque for ten thousand Danish Crowns to cover expenses. He also sent me a letter, asked me if I would deliver it. I thought about it. You know, would have been nice to get away – so I called him and we agreed.

  ‘You met this person face to face?’

  ‘No. But he sounded just like the type you would expect.’

  ‘And the money cleared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Almquist stopped writing, placing his hand to his mouth. ‘All right.’ He waited. ‘And you were asked to do what, exactly?’

  ‘Take it to someone called Anna.’

  ‘Anna?’ Almquist waited. ‘All you had to do was, just take it to her?’

  Justin nodded.

  ‘Her last name?’

  ‘Anna Kron.’

  Kron. His reaction was instantaneous: Hasse Almquist felt a surge electrify every fiber in his being. ‘Anna Kron.’ He said the name slowly, calmly.

  ‘Anna Kron,’ Justin repeated slowly.

  It didn’t make any sense; two, no, three English-speakers, a dead Dane and an American, all here in little old Tiveden because of... Anna Kron. Anna Kron was dead. Anna Kron was buried; part of a past he would just rather forget. He threw a long, hard stare in Justin Swift’s direction, realizing this was going to be worse than he had expected. Much worse.

  Was that why they had made it his case?

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The will requested the painting had to be taken to Anna Kron, and I had been named in his will to take it to her.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ he tested.

  Justin shook his head.

  Almquist wanted to catch everything he could, every nuance, each little detail, every slip of the tongue... every trace of insecurity. None of it explained the group, and neither had Justin mentioned any of the others. That in itself gave him cause to be suspicious. ‘So how did you know to come here?’ Almquist’s pen hovered above his notebook. Justin ran his fingers through his hair, again. He was nervous.

  ‘The lawyer had information she lived at Tived; we didn’t have an address.’ Justin looked at him and swallowed. ‘I had a location, that’s all.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Tived area.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘It says so in the letter. You can read the letter, see for yourself. The embassy had an interest.’

  ‘The British Embassy. Conrad’s employer.’

  Almquist felt a surge of interest. Details, focus on the details.

  ‘What has this got to do... why is the British Embassy involved?’

  ‘Ask Conrad.’

  Conrad Baron and the British Embassy. That meant something else.

  Almquist paused, asking slowly, ‘Why Conrad?’

  Either he knew Anna Kron, his lie about to be revealed, or... he didn’t. Almquist wasn’t sure; it was hard to tell. Sometimes it was possible to know what would happen, sometimes not. He stood up. ‘I will be just a moment.’ He left Justin for the corridor and the photographs.

  Conrad was the man who got me involved.

  Justin looked at the two photographs Almquist had clasped in his hands. He looked into that blind eye of a camera, feeling naked and exposed and shifted his weight on the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. Such a simple question.

  ‘I believe, Conrad Baron was given the job. He found this place through contacts with the Swedish embassy, in Copenhagen.’

  It didn’t make any sense. He felt sick.

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘Prove?’ Justin looked away for a moment.

  How the hell could he prove anything? Thomas was dead. ‘Look, that’s all I know. He told me we had a place to stay. Ask Conrad,’ he repeated more loudly, eyes darting to the canvas wondering what the hell it was Thomas
had been up to.

  Almquist rested his notebook on top of the frames, removing his pen and scribbled a note before looking up, then flicked through his notes, taking his time. ‘I need to know why you brought the painting here, to Gotfridsgaarden.’ He waited.

  Justin breathed deeply, looking down at his hands held together in his lap, moving his thumb around the end of the other. He looked up feeling unsure of himself as Almquist kept his look on target, pupils contracted, so pale blue... ‘He set up the rental agreement.’

  ‘It was Conrad who was responsible for setting this up?’

  ‘Ask Conrad.’

  Almquist let some of his composure break. ‘So, how did that happen then? Why are you here?’

  Justin took a deep breath, composing himself. ‘Conrad was the organizer; he found the place, organized the trip, dates, everything. He even found Ash and Daniel to decipher the runes.’ He insisted they came along...

  ‘The runes on the painting?’

  ‘He wanted to know more about it.’

  He was obsessed about the runes, as if they were some secret code. That was why they came here, to break the code the painting, see where it lead...

  ‘To find out more about the painting, what it was?’ Almquist continued.

  He nodded. Exactly.

  Almquist leaned forward, voice threatening. ‘You just said you came here to find Anna Kron.’

  He froze.

  ‘Now you tell me it was the painting.’ The middle-aged detective got up and walked over to him, placing his mouth close to his ear. ‘Which one is it?’

  Justin felt his heart beating feeling nervous. ‘Both.’

  ‘Both?’ He removed his hand, standing behind him out of sight. He waited.

  It was cold in here. ‘Both. Conrad said, we... well, it belonged to Anna, he needed to know about it.’

  ‘Why do you think he did that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ask Conrad dammit. He shivered.

  You never thought to ask him?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Justin looked around the room, eyes wandering distantly past dark windows, returning to find Almquist waiting for him ever watchful as he returned to take his chair.

  It was a mistake getting involved.

  ‘Look, it was all a bit special, the request, the bequest. I needed the money. Who is Anna Kron?’

  Almquist inclined his head, as if about to admonish a child. ‘I ask the questions. Did Conrad mention anything about the rental?’

  ‘Only that he had found the place. We picked the keys up from the storekeeper.’

  ‘The storekeeper had the keys, to Gotfridsgaarden?’

  He nodded.

  Almquist picked up his pen and wrote on his pad again, slowly. ‘Let me get this right. Your old neighbor in Denmark, called Einar, he died last year and he left a will that this painting be returned to... Anna Kron?’ Almquist said the name slowly, articulating it.

  Justin nodded again. ‘Yes. Look, I have no idea who she is, or why the hell he would want me to... to find her to be honest. He was an old man.’

  Almquist stared at him, obviously noticing his discomfort, that in itself was cause for even more... discomfort. ‘So you didn’t know she was married to Gustav Kron?’

  ‘Gustav Kron, no.’ Justin added. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Her husband. You never heard of him?’

  He shook his head.

  Almquist removed the framed photos and stood up, turning one of them over. He gave it to Justin. Justin looked at it. It showed two men, neither of them smiling. He pointed to the man on the left.

  ‘This, is Gustav.’ Almquist showed the younger man the photograph.

  Justin looked at the picture. He had never seen the man before in his life. The man was dressed formally in tweed. He was young and handsome with fine, light hair treated with oil and combed in a straight parting on one side; a short back and sides, as was the other man in the photograph. ‘Who is this?’ He pointed to the other man.

  Almquist’s face turned dark. ‘Sturla Gotfridsson. Gotfrid’s son.’

  Justin frowned. ‘Gotfrid...’

  ‘Of Gotfridsgaarden. He used to live here, yes. He was not a very nice man.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  Almquist looked beyond Justin and blinked, then gave him the second photograph. ‘This is Anna.’

  This one showed a woman amongst four men, all of them young; it was an older photograph.

  ‘Not many knew her. This was taken at a time before I knew her. So it must be old.’ He pointed. ‘That, is Anna Kron.’

  This was Anna Kron? So she existed... Justin looked up, eyes hungry for more. ‘You know about her then?’

  Almquist’s voice was dry, devoid of expression. ‘Anna is dead.’ Then those pale eyes lost their light.

  ‘Who was she?’ They came all the way here to find Anna, Conrad said. That was what he had been told.

  So who the hell was Gustav?

  ‘Anna Kron died years ago, together with Gustav.’

  ‘Here?’ Justin looked at the young woman called Anna. She wasn’t smiling, but stood with her hands held in front of her, wearing a single-breasted ladies jacket for the outdoors, a long skirt in plaids reaching to below her knees and a scarf tied around her neck. She also wore a straight-faced expression, looking like a schoolteacher, Justin thought.

  Almquist shook his head ‘No, not here. Her house doesn’t exist anymore.’

  Justin crumpled inwardly, though he tried his best to hide behind himself as Almquist stood up and walked forwards to take the photographs from him, walking back towards the window. He tapped the window sill with his fingers, the photographs hanging in the other.

  ‘Is this like, a statement, or something?’ He could hear the nervousness in his own voice.

  ‘That really depends on what you can tell me.’ The aging detective with the glasses and short gray beard turned and stared at the younger man before him. ‘Are you all friends?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  Justin shook his head as Almquist walked back to sit down behind the camera, crossing his legs, placing the photographs on top of his thighs, resting his hands on top of the them as if about to pray.

  ‘No...’

  ‘Are there problems amongst you?’

  Justin hesitated.

  Almquist waited.

  Justin shook his head again. ‘No.’

  Almquist stared at him, zeroing in. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘No! Look, why...’

  ‘If I find out, later.’ He continued to look at Justin searchingly. ‘About any problems... I need to know about them, now.’

  Justin nodded. ‘I know my rights and all that...’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, you can also be prosecuted for what you didn’t say. If we find out about something, later.’ Almquist sent him one of those looks. ‘So... is there anything else you want to tell me? I want to know anything that happened. Anything that cannot be called normal.’

  Justin massaged his brow with eyes closed. Should he tell him?

  Almquist was waiting... prosecuted for withholding information. He thought of his son. He even thought of his wife. ‘Ash and Thomas. They didn’t get on,’ he blurted.

  ‘Something happened?’

  Justin nodded again, eyes still closed. Christ...

  ‘Just tell it as it was. Please,’ Almquist said in a calm voice. Then, more gently this time, coaxingly almost, ‘Just take your time.’

  Almquist headed for his car, casting an appraising eye around the homestead, cigarette smoking in hand. Anna Kron, Gustav Kron... Sturla Gotfridsson, the bastard who treated him with so much contempt, even before the murders.

  He’d allowed them to take a break, having taken possession of Justin’s letter. The letter looked real enough. He showed it to Elin, turning his flash light on. He moved the light downwards. ‘Check it out with the Danish police,’ then he clicked off the light, handing it to her. />
  Elin shrugged as she took it, placing it inside her dark blue police jacket.

  ‘You think one of them did it?’

  She stood by the open driver’s door of the Saab looking down. She turned a page over on her clipboard, comparing Hasse’s notes with hers, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Another mutilation, out of the blue, just like that, in the middle of nowhere. Why there? It doesn’t fit the pattern. Does it?’

  Almquist blew out the last of the smoke from his cigarette and threw the butt to the ground shaking his head, thinking of... fire.

  The past has ways of catching up...

  And now it was too late. Here he was – the same place, a new murder. ‘No, it most certainly does not.’ They were all women.

  There were the same mutilations... and yet, something wasn’t quite the same, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stared into space, his eyes clouding over for a moment, then turned to look back across the gravel of the parking yard, illuminated by the two windows of the kitchen. He took a deep breath, caught somewhere just behind the present. Here, it all started... here. ‘Gotfridsgaarden.’ He turned to look at Vikland. ‘You never heard of this place?’

  She shook her head. ‘Should I?’

  Almquist looked away in the direction of the lake, the sound of water from the stream filling the momentary silence. This was where Sturla Gotfridsson lived. Sturla, Gotfrid’s son hated Gustav Kron, hated him. Gustav Kron had killed himself. Why did he do that? Had it been because of his bad relations with old Gotfrid? He’d never really looked into the relations. But now with Anna on the agenda... he shook his head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was thinking of old Gotfrid.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was an idealist. One of the last of his kind.’ She looked at him as if he was a relic of another age, so he kept the details to himself. Anna had been an idealist too, he recalled. When he had first investigated the murders. An austere woman she was.

  ‘Idealist?’

  He still needed to smoke. The first cigarette had failed to quench his need. Lighting another, he cupped his hand as the orange flame lit up his face in the dark. He turned back to the homestead, raising his head and exhaling smoke. ‘Scared the shit out of the local children with their old wives tales.’ Those who Gustav hated more than anyone else... it was a long time ago. ‘I had no idea anyone rented out the place.’